


Without You

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-08
Updated: 2006-04-08
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:42:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Ive waited till it's over. Is it over now?





	Without You

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes:

This is another standalone, I've not clue why I write these so much.

I guess this can be taken in any POV really, leave me a comment and tell me who you pictured it as.  


* * *

It's too early to be awake. Or too late, depending on how you look at it. I haven't slept for over 48 hours and yet sleep is the last thing on my mind.   
  
There isn't much on it at all, except confusion and sadness and bleak, bleak shadows. Snippets of conversations, discussions, arguments. Only snippets. I could never remember them in their entirety anymore. I wonder if your mind automatically files thoughts away once you've had your fair share of them. Perhaps there's only a certain number of times you're allowed to think of a particular memory, then they say "okay, no more" and it's the time to push that button. Delete. Off they go. Archived forever in your brain; stored on some mystery shelf, put away, forgotten. What if you don't want to forget? What happens then? How do you keep the memories alive? How do you know where to look? Why can you only remember the terrible parts? Why are they always in grey scale? Why can't I hear your voice anymore?   
  
How do you find them again and dust them off and smile at the things you used to smile at? How do you smile when you seem to have lost all feeling in your lips?  
  
Panicked sounds and breathy moans and warnings and heartbeats and sobs. My sobs, not yours. Heart wrenching sobs that still soar through every inch of my body, so much so that I hardly feel them slicing into my skin anymore. I hate it. I hate that these thoughts swim around my head and no amount of whiskey can piece them together again.   
  
It's too cold not to be wearing a jacket. The light linen pants that hang from my hips are far too big on me now and they're thin, frail, weak. I'm just too tired to eat. I'm just too tired to sing. I'm just too tired to do most things, these days. Everybody has noticed it. Everybody expected it and they have all been goddamned saints about it too, don't get me wrong. But I don't want _everybody_. I want you and you're not here.   
  
My clothes let the brisk air flutter through them and my legs tingle because of it. My chest is tight as it usually is in the mornings after a binge of alcohol, cigarettes and whatever else I can lay my hands on. I have to take a few shaky puffs on my inhaler to gain enough strength to remain standing at this window. Standing where you always used to stand. I don't want to move. I don't want to leave this place. The morning sun is rising and I love the warmth against my face. It almost feels like you're here.   
  
Although I feel many feelings, most of them emotions I wouldn't wish on anybody, every one of them is muted. Just like the colours that shine above me to announce daybreak for a second day running. A mild reminder of what I used to feel, of when I felt I had a life.   
  
I loved Paris at night. I loved the life that soared through it's streets, just like the energy that flooded your veins. They were always interesting and colourful and magical and they never ceased to leave me breathless.   
  
You loved it in the morning, when the streets were so quiet you could hear the sound of footsteps, raindrops, birdsong. When the only ones awake are insomniacs like me and outrageous people like you who feel they have no need to sleep. You used to say that sleeping was wasting time and I know why you said it now. We think we have so much time to spare when every day could be our last. You were right, it can. It can take you by surprise when you least expect it, punching you in the stomach and leaving you gasping for air.  
  
When I'm on my own, these days I am usually, I question whether there's any point in me being here at all. I don't appreciate life, and I certainly don't appreciate death. I don't believe in God, I don't believe in fate, I don't believe in a damn thing because the only person who understood me left and I'll never be able to find that again. Is there any point? Why do I continue to snailpace through this life when I don't want it? Why am I still here? Why do I deserve this?   
  
You aren't around today to tell me that's crazy talk. You aren't here to take the pain away. You haven't been around all year. It was 367 days ago that I last spoke to you, since you last told me you loved me. 366 days when I last saw your face. Although it didn't look like your face at all. It was cold and empty and listless. 363 when I watched you disappear forever. You aren't coming back and I can't bring you back and no amount of staring into nothingness is going to tell me anything different. I know that. I don't expect to find you. I don't expect to find anybody else, either. I'm just here, wallowing, alone, and I don't know what to do about that. It's a pretty pathetic life but I'm terrified of dying. Absolutely petrified. Because if I do die and I can't find you, what happens then? Where will I go?   
  
They all told me it would get easier with time. It doesn't. It never does. Memories fade and I hate that they do because they're all I have left. If I lose them; I lose every fragment of who I am, who I was, who we were.   
  
For all the cascading patterns that streak the sky; the midnight blues - as blue as your eyes - bleeding helplessly into scorching pinks and oranges and purples that make the scenery below me glimmer like fireflies - none of this is beautiful without you here. 


End file.
